Although I revel in my self-identification with the moose, my chosen Sherpa animal guide and I have our differences. Aside from physical stature, our respective preferred habitats represent the most notable of our dissimilarities. Whereas one most readily encounters moose in the cooler climes of North America, the urban jungles pockmarking the eastern seaboard encompass my ideal stomping grounds. But, it goes much deeper than that; I harbor absolutely no affinity with untamed nature and lack any desire to experience the supposedly great outdoors. In fact, I feel and hear the crunch of pine needles under my boots only after friends and loved ones placate me with sufficient amounts of a Scooby Snack equivalent.
Even in those circumstances, I am extremely reluctant to interact with nature more than necessary. What’s so appealing about tromping through fields and forests filled with blood sucking, welt causing, disease carrying, and otherwise absolutely irritating ticks, fleas, and other insect vermin? In fact, I’m very much like Melman, the giraffe in Madagascar, when he encounters real nature—as opposed to the manicured, well-coiffed version that surrounds his Central Park Zoo home. When I find myself dealing with the hirsuteness of the predominantly untouched wild, I frequently start thinking, and sometimes even exclaim, “Ah! Nature! It’s all over me! Get it off!” With the exception of the occasional jaunt on a well-maintained trail in a state or national park, I just lack the capacity to appreciate any form of nature that differs from the well groomed and impeccably maintained version of nature found in places such as Philadelphia’s Fairmont Park.
The Road to Mooseville 
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